A Crown Disowned

  "Dragon flying," Tusser said, obviously not for the first time. "Not hurt bad.

  Goes toward Bog. I go, too."

  "You'll stay here, to provide reserve support, as I commanded."

  "Reserve support now must come from the Army of Ren-del, which so far has seen little fighting," Gaurin interrupted. He kept sharpness out of his tone only by an effort. "You might notice that over half of my Nordors are currently holding the pass against the invaders. The other half of my army is going to Rohan's relief."

  Harous blinked. "Then we must send men to help. Where is Chevin?"

  "I met Chevin on my way here, and he is already taking care of it." Gaurin let the rest of his thought—no thanks to you—hang unspoken between them.

  The High Marshal shrugged. "We seem to have the matter well in hand, then."

  Gaurin had to bite back his words before he said something that would have called for blood between the two of them. This matter was far from well in hand, he thought, and it seems you have done little enough about it. Two Ice Dragons had been destroyed and one slightly wounded, but three more remained ready to attack at any moment. Ren-delian and Nordor wounded—and some dead—were being carried off the field even now, from the skirmish. The Dragon that had brought them down was already dwindling to a mere speck in the sky, winging its way southward. Soon, Gaurin knew, it would drop to earth and walk. At that point, perhaps it could be outflanked and overtaken.

  Lathrom's report had been accurate. Harous did not look well. Two spots of color high in his cheeks made him appear feverish.

  "Why," Gaurin asked carefully, "do you think the Dragon is not headed toward the

  Bog?"

  "It is flying in that direction only to throw us off," Harous said with more than a trace of scorn. "It must be going back to some other encampment unknown to us, to have its scratches healed."

  "Yet it did not waver or veer in flight," Gaurin pointed out. "Its path lies straight south. Therefore, I believe that General Tusser is correct. Its hurts may be minor, but its rider knows that it cannot hold its own in another fight such as we just had. So, instead, the rider picks what he thinks is the weakest target in the land they seek to conquer, and that is the Bog."

  "I go," Tusser said. "Defend Bog."

  "No," Harous repeated flatly. "You will stay here."

  By this time several of the young officers, some bleeding from wounds, paused nearby, certainly overhearing their commanders' argument in the midst of a fierce, pitched battle. Such a scene was hard to overlook.

  "Tusser has as much right to defend his own homeland from those who would conquer it as any of the rest of us," Gaurin pointed out. "If I thought the

  Dragon were threatening Rendelsham or the Oakenkeep, and it were in my power, I would make sure that this pass and the coast road were defended properly and then go to their relief, orders or no."

  Several of the young officers were nodding agreement, a fact that Gaurin could tell was not lost on Harous. He expected an answering outburst from the High

  Marshal. Instead, he looked away, feigning a strange and uncharacteristic indifference.

  "Tusser go now," the Bog general said, "kill Dragon. Then Tusser come back—with army."

  Gaurin waited in vain for an answer from Harous. "I will take that as a pledge of honor," he said.

  Then Tusser did something that, as far as Gaurin knew, was unprecedented. He held out his horny hand for Gaurin to clasp. Gaurin took it. "Yes," the Bog-man replied sternly. "Pledge of honor."

  Then he turned and, at the head of his war party, set off at a steady, distance-eating trot back toward the road they had come up just a few days before.

  Harous watched him go, a pinched expression around his mouth. "Good riddance," he said, almost spitting the words. "I never expected anything from him and that ridiculous 'army' of his. I don't know what fool had that notion, to drag the

  Bog-men along. One can never trust those mud dwellers."

  "The fool who 'dragged them along,' as you put it, was my kinsman, Rohan,"

  Gaurin said. This time he didn't even try to keep the anger and exasperation out of his voice. "And I do not propose to leave him to die by Frydian hands this day!"

  Paying no more attention to the High Marshal of Rendel, he rallied a hundred

  Rendelian soldiers. Uttering a shout that relieved at least some of his frustration, Gaurin threw them into the struggle at the snow mound. There the battle had widened as it spilled over from the road itself. Even though it was not the best footing for a battle, still it gave the Four Armies—two, actually, since Rohan's men were still presumably fighting on the other side of the mountain pass, and the Army of the Bog had departed—more room in which to maneuver.

  Then Gaurin turned to those remaining. "We came too close to being trapped here.

  Somehow, our plans became known to the enemy. The Sea-Rovers must be in terrible straits, waiting for our successful attack on the enemy's flank, an attack never to come now. We must go to their aid. Who is with me?"

  Ten

  In the Frydian camp, the northerners were waiting for the Sea-Rovers. All their plans at naught, the marines found themselves in a desperate situation as

  Frydians enveloped them from three sides. The Sea-Rovers, almost as one, uttered fierce battle cries joined by war-kat screams. Then they took a stand, sometimes with a battle comrade if possible, alone when they had to, and steadied themselves to meet the first wave of attack.

  Rohan had no time to marshal his thoughts before he found he was defending himself against two of the stocky, flat-faced invaders. He slapped aside a spear-thrust with the flat of his blade, and in almost the same motion drove it through the body of his second opponent. When he swung around to cut down the remaining foe, he found two more again facing him. He had no idea where Keltin or Bitta could be, though he could hear their snarls and screams echoing in the distance. He judged that they had slipped to the rear, to cut down any laggards.

  Gripped by the rhythm of battle, he somehow found his thoughts clearing. This is not right, he said to himself. We were stealthy enough, our scouts out. How had the Frydians known, been so organized? The Sea-Rovers should have taken them by surprise. Also, once the first staggering shock was past and his men had begun to settle down into the discipline of fighting, he could see there were not as many of the enemy in the camp as there should have been.

  Therefore, not only were the northern invaders waiting for the Sea-Rovers, but they also must have sent a larger portion of their forces against the army toiling its way through the mountain pass.

  With his heart in his throat and the back of his neck tingling fiercely Rohan realized that those in the mountain pass had marched straight into an ambush, even as had the Sea-Rovers.

  "Pull back!" he cried, and heard his order repeated by those who heard it over the din. "Find a defensible spot!" They would stand fast as was their nature, selling each life as dearly as possible.

  The marines were quick to obey. They knew what they now faced. All were more seasoned than he. Though they preferred to be on the attack, they practiced also the discipline of defense. Someone had firmly planted Rohan's battle flag and the Sea-Rovers rallied to it. Here the battle swirled, weapons clashing in a clamor full of danger and death.

  Incongruously, as if he had stepped out of time, Rohan remembered a long ago day in the Great Fane of Rendel, a conversation with the good priest Esander, and a book. Most of all he remembered the words, which he had sworn would be his guide as the way he would live his life. They sang in his head in rhythm to his sword strokes.

  Though caution and common sense are certainly important, sometimes a risk is called for.

  If you laugh, you risk appearing a fool.

  If you weep, you risk appearing sentimental.

  Reaching out for another is risking involvement.

  Exposing feelings is risking revealing your true self.

  Placing your ideas, your dreams, before a crowd is riskin
g rejection.

  Loving is risking not being loved in return.

  Living itself carries with it the risk of dying.

  Hoping is risking disappointment.

  Trying is risking failure.

  Nevertheless, risks must be taken, because the greatest hazard, pitfall, and danger in life is to risk nothing. If a person risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing, that person becomes nothing. He may avoid present suffering and sorrow, but he will not learn, feel, change, grow, love, or live. Chained by his fear, he is a slave who has forfeited his freedom.

  Only that person who dares, who risks, is free.

  Today Rohan was indeed daring to the utmost degree, accepting the ultimate risk.

  He believed with cold certainty that he and his friends and kinsmen could, perhaps would die where they stood. He hoped that those left on the ships, his grandfather in particular, would come to know that they died well.

  Because he must, he hoped that Anamara would not grieve overlong.

  Gaurin led the detachment of Rendelian soldiers at a double-time trot back through the mountain pass, up the coast road. This was not the sort of rushed pace war-kats liked, so he left them behind. Rohan had his two. That was good, though more would have been useful in the battle he knew must lie ahead. To their credit, the men did not seem inclined to want much rest but instead were eager to go to the aid of the brave marines on whom such a large portion of the fighting was now falling.

  Pushing the men as hard as he dared, Gaurin kept them moving. He could well guess what the Sea-Rovers must face. Frydians were fierce fighters, never more so than when they felt they had the advantage.

  The Rendelians were panting by the time the sounds of battle began to reach their ears. Nonetheless they redoubled their efforts. They were practically at a dead run by the time they rounded a pile of rocks that marked some kind of boundary. Spreading out quickly, they joined the fight. Gaurin found himself beside a tough Sea-Rover fighting gamely despite the blood running down his brawny weapons-arm. Had he been but a few minutes more on the road, the man would likely have been cut down.

  "Just in time!" the man gasped. "We thought we were done for!"

  Gaurin dispatched the Frydian before him and slipped an arm around the

  Sea-Rover's shoulders, as he was obviously too far gone to walk unaided. "We have been busy over on the other side as well," he said. "We came as quickly as we could."

  "We know," the Sea-Rover said.

  When Gaurin had settled the wounded man in a spot out of the worst of the danger, he himself plunged immediately back into the fray.

  With the unexpected—and extremely welcome—arrival of reinforcements, the balance began to shift in the battle in the Frydian camp. By ones and then twos, and then in groups, the northerners began to break and run. Gaurin became aware of an increase in the din coming from the right, and realized that the survivors of those Frydians who had started down the hidden mountain road into the death valley must be in full retreat and what they found before them now could not be a welcome sight. Soon their pursuers, Nordors and Rendelians with war-kats bounding ahead of them, came pouring after them, into the camp area. In the middle of the battleground, Lathrom and Gaurin met. Wearily, they leaned on their swords and clasped hands.

  "Well done," Gaurin said.

  "Better done," Lathrom said.

  Rohan joined them. He had a cut on his forehead but otherwise he seemed all right. Keltin and Bitta were by his side; Bitta limped, shaking her paw now and then. "Better done indeed," he said, indicating the Sea-Rovers who had lived through the fighting. "If you had not arrived when you did, I doubt that we could have lasted much longer."

  Cebastian and Chevin likewise joined the small knot of officers. Both had wounds that needed treatment. However, they could wait as men with worse injuries got the physicians' first attention back at their camp.

  "Yes, my thanks as well," Chevin said. "We have won a good victory this day."

  Gaurin nodded. He knew that by rights, he should have been congratulating Harous instead. Harous, however, had been conspicuously absent from the fray both in spirit and in body. Perhaps, Gaurin hoped, after he had taken the detachment of men up the shore road, Harous had roused himself from that strange torpor.

  "Another such victory could finish us," he said. "Where is the High Marshal?"

  "He is seeing to the cleanup of the battle site at the mountain pass. He has ordered me to ask you to do the same here."

  "Of course," Gaurin said.

  Working with quick efficiency, both Nordors and Ren-delians dragged the stocky bodies of the Frydian dead into a pile for burning. Others put together makeshift litters for the worst wounded and started them on the trek back to their camp. Then they too retreated southward from the enemy site, carefully setting the haphazard groupings of tents and shelters on fire as they went.

  Within moments the entire area was ablaze.

  Rohan arranged a litter for Bitta as well, for her paw was now obviously unable to bear her weight. It seemed only fitting to honor his gallant companion in such manner.

  Harous felt as if he were burning with fever. Where was Fla-vielle? She had promised to oversee the battle, to drop the ice river on the heads of their enemy. The plan had been so perfect. Could she have been riding the Ice Dragon that his men had wounded? He could not make himself even contemplate that hers could have been the one caught in the deadly avalanche, and that she may now be dead.

  No. It was impossible. Later, he thought, clinging to a hope beyond all hope, he would see her again, hold her in his arms.

  In the meantime, he busied himself with ordering the clearing of the battlefield. His head pounded with every heartbeat and despite the frigid day, he was sweating. He found that he did not regret the numbers of Rendelian or

  Nordor soldiers who had fallen, or been wounded. Instead, he resented the fact that the Bog-men had deserted the battlefield on the flimsy pretext of defending their portion of Rendel. If they had been where he had ordered them to be, perhaps the odious Tusser would have been found among the dead.

  Or, perhaps he was correct and the Ice Dragon really was headed for the Bog. In that case, given the poor weapons the Bog-men carried, and their equally weak attempts at armor, the odds were definitely with the Dragon, no matter how many minor wounds it had sustained. The result would be the same—Tusser would be dead, along with the rest of his contemptible excuse for an army.

  He hoped, then, that Flavielle had ridden that beast. She would return to him in triumph.

  "We won, sir." It was Reges. He was favoring one leg, and Harous realized that the young noble had suffered a sword slash to the back of his calf. A little better aimed, and he would have been hamstrung. As it was, he would probably recover.

  "So we did," Harous said. "So we did. Where is Chevin?"

  "Still on the battlefield."

  "Tell him to report to me."

  Reges saluted and hobbled off to do as he was bid. Presently, Chevin, battle-smudged but without apparent hurt, appeared. "Sir?"

  "How does the enemy?"

  "They have broken, sir, and are on the run."

  "Pursue them back to their camp," Harous said. "If the fight has gone out of them, then let them go. Only be sure that they have truly fled, and then, if you can find Gaurin, tell him to see to the ordering of that battlefield even as we are clearing this one. Do you understand?"

  "Of course, sir."

  Chevin saluted again and turned to do Harous's bidding. The Lord High Marshal returned to his thoughts. Perhaps Gaurin had perished, not that it would matter if Ashen were widowed once more. Harous knew that he belonged, heart, soul, and body, to the Sorceress Flavielle, and even the slight impediment of his false wife was of little concern to him now.

  Strange. He had not thought of Marcala but for that once, when he had encountered Flavielle not far from this very spot, and that was to remember how she had made an attempt on his life.

  His heart cramped again.
Flavielle. She was the true mate for a man such as himself.

  His thoughts began to race madly, driven by his fever. Where were the remaining

  Ice Dragons? Why had the Ren-delians faced only one of the five remaining after

  Rohan had so treacherously slain the sixth? With a Dragon buried in the snow and the wounded one fled south, why had the other three riders not come to its aid?

  No, she could not have deserted him. The odds of her being among those now curiously absent from the field of battle had shortened dramatically.

  If she had perished in the avalanche…

  "Did you bring medicines?" Gaurin asked, as he escorted Ashen, Royance, and their followers through the camp. Here and there faint moans of wounded men came from tents and shelters.